"But I don't go into tempers now," said the child. "I'm trying to be meek and lowly, like Jesus, that I may go and see my papa."
It was a long time since Milly had mentioned this name, and all thought it had faded from her memory.
It brought the tears to the widow's eyes as she heard it.
"What makes you cry?" asked Milly. "You said one day I should see papa. Won't Jesus take me to see him soon?"
"Perhaps He will, dear," replied the widow, kissing the little face.
And she sighed as she looked at the fragile little figure, and thought how very likely it was that she should be called upon to part with this tender blossom that had become so very dear to her, and the brightness and sunshine of their home. And try as she would, she could not keep back her tears at the thought of parting with her, even though it was to become like the angels she was so fond of talking about.
It was a favorite subject with Milly to say she would be an angel and take care of somebody. Sometimes it was Bob, or Jack, and sometimes the widow herself. And these talks of the child always made her think she would be early taken to another world.
But the widow never glanced at the possibility of its being her own death that would thus separate them. She had been unable to walk for several years, but her general health was good, and she looked forward to spending some years yet on the low truckle bed, and do what she could for the comfort of her two boys.
She was saying this to a neighbor one day—it was not often they had a visit from any one, for the nearest cottage was some distance from their own, and so it was a treat for the widow to have some one to talk to. The woman looked at her keenly as she spoke, and asked if she felt quite well.
"I have been until now, but I can't say that I feel too well to-day, though it's nothing to complain of, only a little pain here," and she laid her hand upon her heart.